by Red Garnier
True, Roland was not Daniel. But Roland was kind and elegant, distinguished, worldly and traveled, and Monica would never burn with rage if he looked at another. She wouldn’t be consumed by hurt if he went to bed with another. She’d move on. For he would be a luxury to her, not a necessity like … the man she was in bed with.
She studied him with an awful knot in her chest, his muscles glorious even at rest, his lashes resting against his cheekbones. Her mind went back and forth for hours, until she rose to get dressed.
“Daniel,” she said softly as she sat on the edge of the bed, watching his eyelids flutter, his gaze sharpening with alarming precision the instant he noticed she was dressed. He pushed up on one arm, scraping the other folded which had been across his face, his triceps flexing.
“What time is it?” His voice was bedroomy, grazing along her skin.
“Six a.m.”
“Come back to bed, baby,” he said, draping an arm around her.
“I can’t.” She wiggled him off and impulsively clasped his face between her hands, softening her voice. “I can’t do this, Daniel.”
He groaned and turned his head to nuzzle her palm with his lips, lightly nipping her before he tried gathering her against him again. “I can’t think right now, Monica. Come back to bed with me. This is the first good night’s sleep I’ve had in years. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
She resisted him, edging off the bed. “It is tomorrow. Daniel, I shouldn’t have spent the night.” Her voice wanted to crack on the last sentence when he slowly, slowly opened his eyes, and she couldn’t even hold that gaze.
It took every ounce of strength in her being to find the same girl, the same woman, who’d stood up before both judge and jury and related how she’d found her parents dead, after an hour’s shouting match and then another several of silence, how she had found them in the master bedroom with their wrists slit. Dad had also cut his throat. Or maybe mother had done it, she wasn’t sure.
Nobody was sure.
She felt the cold go through her again and said in a soft but toneless voice, as she stared at his throat, “I can’t do this. You’ve always known I can’t. I merely didn’t want to leave without telling you that whatever this is, it’s over.”
“Look at me when you talk to me,” he said, and then he gently grabbed her face and pulled it to him, her jaw cupped in his palm from ear to ear, thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. “That’s better. Now tell me, Monica.”
She clamped her teeth and, pushing his arm away, stood back at the ill-concealed anger in his voice. “I’m trying to fix this. It was wrong of me to ask you to sleep with me. We can’t do this anymore.”
“Why did you ask me, Monica? You really think I’m buying that you wanted a fuck buddy? Sex wasn’t the driving force here, princess, you just used it as an excuse to come to me at last.” He uncoiled from the bed like a snake, suddenly coming to his full height, his eyes and voice sharpening as he edged closer.
She held her ground, but inside she was shaking with the truth of his words, with his nearness, with the pain of being at odds with him minutes after being warm and content in his arms and in his bed.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Monica,” he said, his eyes fiercely tender as he stroked a loose sable hair and rubbed it between his fingers like it were precious. “Only the fact that the man you’re in love with is right here, and you want him with every bit of your being.”
She stiffened when he stroked his thumb along her lower lip, his voice dropping further. “Who is it you think of when you pleasure yourself? I know, Monica. I know who you think of, because it’s you who I think of, too.” He turned her face up to his when she tried to avoid his flaming green gaze. “Every woman to me is a mirage of you, but my God I’ve been eating grapes all my life and my body gets even hungrier when all it wants is this … fucking … red … apple … and I want you to feed it to me, my love. I want you to feed me every day of you, just you … my one obsession, my one sole addiction.”
She stepped back, her heart pounding, her systems trembling awake at his words. “Please don’t touch me. I can’t think when you touch me.” She raised her arms to hold him back, forcing herself to meet his gaze and the roiling force of the emotions flaming inside him, bearing herself to hold the weight of this startlingly new misery she was opening up inside her.
“You’re right. You’re right, Daniel,” she agreed, watching his face tighten at her admission. “My problem isn’t me, and it’s not them. My problem is for how long, how much, I’ve been trying to get over you.” His body tightened like a bowstring at the admission, and he took a hungry step forward, but she halted him with her hand again.
“Please, don’t. Don’t touch me.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Daniel, I thought if I caved in and found a way to be with you, it would ease. If you’re hungry, and eat, you feel it eased … but it doesn’t.” She shook her head. “My taxi is waiting. I just wanted to explain why I left and why I … can’t do this anymore. I need to step back and breathe.” He was staring at her with anger and frustration, holding himself as still as a statue with his hands tightly fisted at his sides. She impulsively cradled his jaw because she had to touch him, could not help it. “I can’t bear to think of us killing ourselves for each other like my parents.”
He caught her wrist and squeezed fiercely in a stunningly fast move, hissing through his teeth, “Have the balls to love me, Monica.”
“I can’t! You can’t feel for someone like this and not hurt each other, Daniel. You can’t feel this without doing something crazy. It’s so obvious to me now. I can’t even look at you without feeling … without feeling … undone!”
His eyes flashed with more hunger, more need, more frustration. “Baby, you undo me, too. The problem with your parents wasn’t that they loved each other too much, it was that they loved themselves more and were too damned proud to fucking forgive when the other screwed the hell up!”
The words, though oddly true, stung fierce as whiplashes. “How dare you judge my parents!” she gasped, then she was storming down the hall, unable to look at him any longer.
“Monica, I’m sorry…” He came walking behind her.
“Fuck you, Daniel. I don’t even want to be your friend anymore.”
“Damn you, I’m sorry.” Fiercely he grabbed her mid-step and spun her around. “We might hurt each other sometimes, that’ll be inevitable, but we’ll work it out. Hell, it’s my turn, Monica! Jesus, you’ve made me stand back and watch other men take my place at the side of the woman I love for years!”
“I don’t want love, I’ve never wanted love. The only reason I came to sleep with you was to see if sleeping with you would get it out of me!”
“How’s that fucking working out for you, huh? Is that all you made it out to be?” He caught her face between his hands and dropped his head to hers, nuzzling her softly, making her knees liquefy as he nibbled her nose. “Come with me to the Fall gala next weekend. As mine. My partner. My woman.”
Every effort in her body was focused on suppressing the shiver his touch, his words, his presence, elicited. “I can’t.”
He lowered his head and grazed her lips with his, seducing her with his words, his warm breath. “You can’t, or you won’t?” he urged.
“I can’t. I’m going with Roland.”
He pulled back with a jolt, stunned, and Monica quickly took this advantage to put even more distance between them. His face had gone blank, and her chest throbbed in a way she had never imagined it could possibly hurt. She felt like she had physically hurt him, like she had physically struck him with a paddle.
His voice was completely alien, a whisper full of pain and anguish and anger. “He’s not even what you want, damn you.”
“But he’s what I choose, Daniel.” Her voice shook uncontrollably. “You’re the prince of this city, whether you like it or not. You’re … you’ll forget about me. And maybe we can be friends in a couple of years, like last t
ime. I can’t do this, please understand. Good-bye, Daniel.” She pushed the button on the wall so that the heavy doors parted, and then she walked through them and out of his life.
* * *
The instant the doors closed behind her, Daniel spun around in a blinding rage. He grabbed the remote for his intelligence system, and slammed it impulsively into the wall, then he charged down his hall, all the while hating her, loving her. Hating her cowardice. Hating his own.
He was soon in the shower, leaning his head against the cold marble wall, cursing her to hell, cursing his life to hell, wondering why in the hell he had to be in love with the one woman who didn’t want him, who didn’t need him, who didn’t want to love him.
He groaned and slammed the heel of his palm into the wall, dying of sheer frustration. Before heading to the office, he stopped by Graves’s place. He was his best friend. The last time Daniel had been here, he had found out he was sleeping with Chloe, and he’d smashed Graves’s face in. Now he arrived to find his friend partially dressed in slacks and an open dress shirt, Chloe in a similar shirt that almost swallowed her up. Upon seeing her brother, she came up to him with her big concerned eyes, just like his, and wrap her arms around him just like he needed her to. “Danny, what’s wrong?”
He was just silent, putting his head against hers. She was little and sweet, his sister, and he wanted to sag from the goddamned tension of battling with Monica this morning. Chloe was so warm, so giving … why couldn’t Monica love him like she loved Graves? Goddamn it, why couldn’t Monica love him, period!
“Danny, talk to me.”
He dragged in a breath, then scraped a hand down her hair, missing the tender softness of Monica’s body against him, the way she went when she put down all her walls and put the damned Ice Maiden to bed, so there was only Monica in his arms, warm and taunting, hungry and wanting …
“I need a date for Saturday’s gala, Chlo. Would you mind if I stole you for a couple of hours that evening?” he asked her, then he glanced Graves, who watched, dark and somber, from the kitchen.
“No, I don’t mind,” Chloe said warily.
Daniel waited for his best friend to say something. Graves was wild about her. Daniel never imagined a man more worthy of his sister, but he took care of her, protected her. They took care of each other. Sought and cuddled each other. “That all right, Graves?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah, man, of course.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Chloe said at the same time Graves brought three cups of coffee. “But why would you go with me when you could take anyone?” she asked.
Daniel grunted. “Not anyone.” The misery in his chest began to tighten at the reminder. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at eight then.” He kissed her forehead and stood, and she caught his hand.
“It’s her again, isn’t it?” Chloe asked, her eyes searching his expression.
Daniel just nodded and headed for the elevator.
“Are you talking about who I think you’re talking about?” Graves asked.
“Yeah.” Daniel waited for the elevator.
“The Ice—”
“Yes,” Daniel cut him off, raising a hand. “Her.”
Graves nodded, no judgment in his hazel eyes. He wasn’t a very talkative man, and thank God for that. Monica was a topic that always hurt to speak about. She had been the “big white elephant in the room” with his friends his entire life. No one dared mention her—at least rarely. She was a hot button for him, and nobody pressed it. Especially Graves, his closest friend. He knew what loving Monica had done to him in his twenties. Daniel hadn’t loved a woman ever since, had never again allowed himself to be vulnerable with one.
Until Monica had climbed into his car and calmly asked if he’d have sex with her …
Damn her!
So she could go seduce a senile grandfather? Not even Viagra would make the motherfucker hard enough to give Monica what she needed. Damn her!
He and Graves quietly slapped each other’s back and Daniel left, thanking him for sharing Chloe for the evening, all the while seething inside. Angry at Monica, angry at himself for opening himself to her again. For thinking he could get past that thick head of hers.
He was brooding in the elevator, realizing he felt just as bound and tied as he had when she had him on the bed. Tied up and helpless. He’d lose her if he went after her. He’d lose her if he backed off.
She’d been fucking lost to him since he was twenty-three.
His scowl bit into his face. As he climbed into BUG1, he pulled out his cell phone and called one of the contacts he’d e-mailed a couple of hours ago, asking about Roland Gustafson. “Tell me you found something.”
The voice on the other end chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I did. I was just going to drop the info by your office.”
“I’m on my way.”
Chapter Five
Friday morning, a day before the gala, Monica stared in growing surprise at the set of photographs on her desk. They were pictures of her … with a winter wonderland in the background. In some of them, she was alone. While in others, she was embracing … Daniel.
Her fingers shook as she lifted one for her inspection, her own gaze looking back at her, holding her transfixed. She had never, ever, seen herself this way before. The eyes that stared back at her were the eyes of a woman deeply in love. Deeply. In. Love.
Her throat ached with defeat, for she could deny it to Daniel all she wanted, but there was no denying it to herself any longer. She loved him. She loved him so much the feeling infused every particle of her being, every pore in her body.
She didn’t want to be so vulnerable, had never wanted to feel this. But now she stared at the familiar stranger on the photograph, feeling completely surprised and awed by what she saw. The woman staring back at her didn’t look lost, as she’d felt that day. In fact, there was a startling focus and clarity in her eyes. This was not the Ice Maiden. No. This was Monica. And the camera had never captured her like this.
But Daniel had.
Her irises were darker, her pupils large, her fingers lightly biting into the powerful flesh of his back. This woman would fight like a lioness for her man, and for the cubs he gave her. If her lion ever strayed, this woman would fight to survive—and she would win. Her stomach moved at the realization. She looked calm and happy. Strong. In love.
Not scared, not of him, never of him. Perhaps of herself.
She expelled a breath, and looked at another image, and in all of them, she was there. No Ice Maiden. Only Monica. Monica in his arms. Monica alone, open, in love, and strong.
When her parents died so tragically, she had learned the hard way that human beings were extremely resilient, and could endure almost anything. In many ways, she had begun to care for him so much during those times, that she had immediately stepped back in a desperate need to pull herself to her feet without anyone holding her. For what would happen when her pillars were kicked out from under her again?
She had taught herself, even though it had been painful, to live without Daniel even before she’d allowed herself to be with him. She’d shown herself that life was precious to enjoy and value whether or not you were with the person you wanted to share it.
Now she wondered if she was strong enough to deny herself the man she loved, why could she not be strong enough to be with him?
She’d wanted him. Had wanted to kiss him, to have sex with him. Because she’d needed to get him out of her mind. His almost-kiss had haunted her for a decade, because Daniel should’ve been her first kiss. He was her first, and only, love. And he should’ve been her first lover. If he had, there would have never been anyone else for Monica. But Monica had not allowed it.
It frightened her.
If she ever lost him, like her parents, would she want to die?
She hadn’t wanted to find out.
She had denied his kiss, denied the love she could feel he’d wanted to give her, and she had denied the love she’d felt for him. Inste
ad, she given herself to older men, maybe even with more experience than Daniel back then, but she’d never felt even a whisper of wanting with any of them. Not a whisper of the explosions she felt when Daniel smiled at her, spoke to her. Not the calm completion she felt when Daniel had held her all those years ago, in his powerful, gentle arms.
Her eyes burned at the thought.
God, she’d really gotten herself into a tight place this time.
When she’d asked him to have sex with her, she’d thought the years had passed and that physically, she could get involved with him, without being involved on the inside. She’d thought she needed to get over the tantalizing memory of him holding her in his arms, of his lips almost kissing her, his words telling her that she was beautiful and he wanted her, and she’d thought that once she allowed herself to experience the physical need she had tried to the depths of her being to deny all these years, she would be ready to be with another man.
Oh, God.
How badly, how badly, she had planned this out.
She had thought to get the curiosity out of her system, to allow her body to indulge in what she had long ago denied it. Yes, she’d regretted, for years, the way she’d shockingly reacted to that kiss. Daniel Lexington would have been her first kiss, and instead she’d gotten scared by the enormity of it, of losing your parents at nineteen and falling in love in a way that brought all of that tragedy back.
She had reacted badly, and instead, months later, she had given her kiss to someone else, her virginity to someone else, someone who didn’t pose any threat to her control, someone who was older, tamer, and who didn’t make her burn. Even then, when all those tame men touched her, she felt closed and locked, yearning for the one touch that would make all the others seem like nothing.
Now she had been with him, thinking she would be free of that need. That hunger. That feeling of wrongness she felt with other men. But being with the right one had merely assured that she would never, in her life, be able to be with anyone else.